The Magical Jammie Dodger Vision Quest
by whatthefoucault
Summary: The Curious Tale of Vince Noir and the Magical Jammie Dodger Vision Quest: AKA as my title is too long for , go me! Howard's consciousness is submerged by malevolent jazz, and Vince embarks on a quest to rescue him and stuff. Four chapters o'fun!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Wowzers, I don't own them. SHOCKING.  
**Author's Notes**: Funny thing about this one. Wrote it, was very nearly done, minus a few fill-ins and some polish, and THE DAMN THING DISAPPEARED OFF MY HARD DRIVE. I cried and cried and cried. Apart from a short chunk I'd emailed to someone to look at, it was gone. Therefore, this represents a month and a half of painstakingly trying to remember what the hell happens in this story. So yeah. Incidentally, chronologically speaking, this follows Flying Lessons, so there might be a mild spoiler or two for that one if you haven't yet read it, but the story still makes sense. Well, as much sense as the Boosh makes, when mashed up messily with some tropes I stole from medieval dream poetry.

It was a good morning - afternoon, technically; let's just call it the morfternoon. Heck, let's just start again, shall we?

It was a good morfternoon, as far as Vince Noir could tell: he emerged from his bedroom on a set of glitter-encrusted silver rollerskates, swirling and figure-eighting his way into the kitchen, headphones affixed to his perfectly coiffured head, as he sang along to Blue Monday with all his might. Boom boom boom. Thrusting his hips from side to side, pulling epic shapes in front of the cupboard, he pulled down a box of crunchy nut and poured himself a bowl, to which he added the following: one sliced banana, four strawberries, a scattering of blueberries, and a splash of milk. (With a handful of jelly snakes and gummy fried eggs on the side, for protein.) He found himself needing a solid breakfast more often than not, now that he and Howard (Moon, that is; Vince's best mate/flatmate/workmate/soulmate, and more recently, also lover/snugglebuddy/blushing bride-to-be) were spending their night-times making up for years of for some reason not shagging each other. It was, to be sure, infinitely more gratifying than trying to sneak in a quiet wank in the shower, or when he thought - hoped - Howard was asleep. He was pleased to discover that Howard was a fast learner and, with a little gentle persuasion, was quite enthusiastic about the whole sex thing. Last night's incident with the strawberry jam ranked right up there with the most exhausting undertakings he had ever undertaken. He blushed inwardly as he allowed himself to remember that thing Howard had done with his tongue... there was no way he'd learned that from the old lingerie catalogue Vince knew he had secretly hidden between the Q and R volumes of his dusty encyclopaedia set.

And what's more, they loved each other very much.

"I see a ship in the harbour," he sang as he twirled round, gliding over to the couch with his food, plopping down beside Howard.

Howard.

But, Howard was meant to be downstairs by now, surely, he thought. He pulled off his headphones and turned to his companion.

"Alright Howard, aren't you meant to be minding the shop?" he asked.

Howard mumbled something incoherent in response.

"What?" Vince squinted at him.

Howard seemed not to notice Vince's presence. He appeared to be staring off into something, though Vince could not figure out what it could have been besides wall, and if Howard found wall more captivating than Vince's own glorious visage, there had to be something suspicious going on.

"Howard. Howard. Howard. Howard! Howard. Howard. Howard. Howard. Howard, for fuck's sake," said Vince, whose patience was rapidly growing thin. "This isn't funny Howard, look at me!"

Vince held Howard's cheek in his hand and turned him gently. Howard stared, glazed over, past Vince and into the middle distance, still muttering to himself.

"Scoobity doo bop dee doo bee doo dee doo dee," he said, to no one in particular.

"What is that, some kind of jazzy nonsense?" asked Vince.

"Skeedly bop bop doo dee doo dee doo bee doo," Howard mumbled, oblivious to his concerned companion.

"Oh Howard, you've gone wrong!" exclaimed Vince, grabbing Howard by the shoulders and shaking him roughly. "Snap out of it! Speak to me, you berk!"

Howard flopped back and forth in response, slumping back into the couch when Vince gave up in exasperation.

"What have you done to yourself, you idiot?" he asked. "Naboo!"

"What the hell are you yelling about?" replied Naboo, padding into the living room half-dressed, his turban slightly askew. He looked right fucked off about the whole thing.

"Something's the matter with Howard," said Vince, nervously pacing the room.

"Fine," sighed Naboo, "let's take a look at him, then."

"Doo bee doo bop bop scooby dooby dooby," said Howard.

"Stop it, you ball bag," said Naboo, slapping Howard in the face.

"Skoodly bop bop a roonie," said Howard.

"It's worse than I thought," said Naboo, turning to Vince. Naboo looked concerned. "Howard's jazz tranced himself into a coma."

"What are we going to do?" asked Vince.

"Shh, listen," said Naboo.

Behind Howard's confused scat rantings, they could hear the soft cracklings of a record album's last repeating rotation, turning over and over. Naboo pulled the record from the turntable, inspecting the label.

"Howard, you fucking idiot," he moaned.

"Yeah, it's rubbish," nodded Vince.

"It's not that. I mean yeah, it's shit, but this is powerful stuff, Vince. This jazz record is so potent that rumour has it Allen Ginsberg listened to the first five minutes of this album and disappeared into the mountains for six months," he said. "An entire rotation of the A-side could render a person catatonic."

"What, like a werewolf?" asked Vince.

"What?" replied Naboo.

"Like a werewolf?" repeated Vince.

"What?" repeated Naboo.

"Catatonic, like a werewolf? Only he's turning into a cat? Catatonic?" asked Vince.

"No, that's stupid," said Naboo.

"Doobity shoobity bazzleboozle," said Howard.

"Well, what are we going to do, then?" Vince asked, burying his face in his hands with worry. "We can't just leave him like a bebop vegetable!"

"You'll have to go in after him," said Naboo.

"Go in after him?" asked Vince.

"On a vision quest," explained Naboo, "into the deepest recesses of Howard's unconscious, to bring him back into the realm of, you know, this... stuff."

"Why can't you go?" asked Vince. "You're the expert."

"Yeah, but I don't give a shit," reasoned Naboo. "That and I'm way too stoned."

"Right," agreed Vince, inspecting Naboo's bloodshot eyes. "Well, what do I have to do?"

"Have a jammie dodger," said Naboo, retrieving a biscuit from somewhere within his robes.

"What good's that going to do?" asked Vince.

"New flavour, jam and vision quest," said Naboo.

"Oh yeah, genius," nodded Vince, noshing on biscuit. "So, how long does it take for the visions to kick in?"

Next thing Vince knew, Naboo was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Howard, or their living room. He found himself in a seemingly endless white hallway; the only sound the buzz of an endless length of bare, flickering fluorescent lightbulbs.

"What the funk is this?" he shouted down the endless corridor, his voice reverberating off the bare, white walls.

"This is the mind of Howard Moon," came a familiar voice from behind him. Vince spun round, and there was Bryan Ferry, of all people, someone whom Vince had most certainly not expected to encounter.

"All right, Bryan!" he smiled, jumping on the other man, hugging him tightly.

"Not exactly," said the other man, wriggling uncomfortably out of the embrace. "Howard's consciousness endowed me with a form you could understand, such that I may guide you on your quest."

"My quest?" squinted Vince.

"To rescue Howard," said the Guide.

"A quest down a hallway, though?" Vince glanced round at his nondescript surroundings.

"It's a metaphor, you berk," snapped the Guide.

"It's dead boring, whatever it is," said Vince. "So I guess we'll have to search every room until we find him, then?"

"That's the idea," replied the Guide.

"Right. Well, let's get rescuing," said Vince, following the Guide in the direction of the first door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I own lots of things: a Mick Jagger action figure (ultra-realistic: he's even doing his little dance!), and a half-finished bottle of coconut water, and a Soreen malt loaf I snuck in from England, but I still don't own the Boosh. I just borrow them sometimes.

**A/N**: Pretty much had to rewrite most of this from memory. The first bit was written while eating fish and chips at a pub by the Embankment. QUALITY FOODSTUFFS, those fish and chips.

The first room lay beyond a doorway that looked like it should have been the entrance to a drab, middle-class home. Sellotaped to the door was a sheet of ruled paper that appeared to have been torn out of a child's school notebook. The words "Howard's Childhood" were written there in a child's meticulously loopy, awkward attempt at cursive writing.

Inside was nearly - but not quite - what Vince remembered to be the living room of Mr. and Mrs. Moon - Howard's parents - but none of it was to scale: from the inside, the door was much taller, the ceiling strangely high, and the couch so bizarrely oversized that Vince had to clamber up with his arms just to sit on it.

"This is well weird," said Vince, perched on the edge of the couch and swinging his legs in the air.

"This is how Howard must have seen things when he was a child," explained the Guide, peering under the coffee table, searching for Howard.

On top of the coffee table was a large, brown photo album, with the word MEMORIES emblazoned on the front cover in bland, seventies typefont. Vince scrambled to reach from his precarious perch to retrieve it.

The album was full of pictures Vince did not remember, all featuring little Howard, and with handy captions printed beneath, such as: _Howard's stamp collection; Howard's first visit to the zoo; Howard's first day of school._

"Aww, look at him in his little uniform!" giggled Vince. "With his skinny little boy legs in his little shorts and, ugh... _elbow patches_."

Vince turned the page. The next few pages of pictures were different. They had captions like: _No one comes to Howard's birthday party; Howard is still the only boy in his year with a moustache; the other children yell mean things about Howard on his way home from school_.

"Oh Howard," said Vince, quietly. He was at a loss for words. His own memories of childhood had never been so heartbreaking. Vince's childhood memories consisted of his adventures in the jungle, being the most coolest kid in school, and loads of parties with big bouncy castles. Howard's experience was, it seemed, much more grim. These were things Howard never mentioned about his youth. Vince could barely bring himself to turn the page.

But he did, and what he found on the following page was decidedly different again: _Howard and the new boy from the jungle, Howard and Vince's first crimp, Vince comes to Howard's birthday party, Vince holds Howard's hand as they cross the street together_.

"Aww Howard, what are you like?" whispered Vince, carefully blotting at the corners of his eyes with his scarf, so as not to allow his eyeliner to run. "I love you too, you big Northern girl's blouse."

"It appears that Howard is not here," said the Guide. "Have you been crying?"

"Course not," sniffled Vince, closing the album and climbing down off the giant couch. "Guess we'd best be moving on. What's next?"

The next door bore a sign made of a curling sheet of typewriter roll, which bore the words "Howard's Poetry Corner" in fading Underwood type.

The room was evocative of San Francisco circa about 1960, and buzzing with life. The walls were dotted with ugly canvases smeared with swaths of angry paint. Revolting strains of East-Coast jazz filtered their above the chatter of the crowd of beatsters and hipniks in horn-rimmed spectacles and turtlenecks and Gosh-awful tweed things gathered there, pretentiously rambling on to one another about this poet and that, this film and the other, blah blah blah.

And what's more, there was something fundamentally _wrong_ with the whole place. It took Vince a moment to figure out what it was. He squinted. Everything was in black-and-white. Of course. So fucking artsy.

"Howard's Poetry Corner," sighed Vince. "I think I'm coming out in hives."

"Need I remind you of your task?" the Guide rolled his eyes.

"No," sighed Vince. "But seriously, don't you notice the smell?"

"The heady fumes of deep thoughts and serious jazz," observed the Guide.

"Yeah, which smells like stale pipe tobacco and feet," moaned Vince. "What, do these berks think bathing's too conformist?"

"Are you here for the reading?" asked a strangely familiar woman in thick catwoman glasses and a fitted green dress.

"Mrs. Gideon?" Vince was incredulous.

"Umm, yes," she said, patting nonchalantly at her fiercely intellectual updo. "Are you... new here? I don't recognize your face."

"It's me, Vince?" he replied with a flourish. "Vince Noir, from the Zooniverse!"

"Vince...?" she puzzled. "I'm sorry, I don't think I know you."

"What are you talking about?" he protested. "Look at this face! Nobody can forget this face! This is an unforgettable face! It's indelibly etched into the memories of millions!"

"Sorry," she shrugged, and flowed back into the throng.

"This is ludicrous," exclaimed Vince. "Howard's getting a serious talking-to after I've rescued him. Better yet, I'm never speaking to him again!"

Vince crossed his arms, huffing like a stroppy teenager. The Guide rolled his eyes.

"Vince, I'm sure there are many parts of Howard's consciousness where you figure much more significantly," he said. "Let us not distract ourselves too long from the task at hand, don't you think?"

"Yeah," sighed Vince.

Vince and the Guide shoved their way through the crowd, searching each face desperately, but none of the faces there were Howard. All of a sudden, the voices quieted, the music faded out, and a bespectacled figure with a shamefully bad haircut who looked an awful lot like Howard seated himself on a stool in one corner of the room, where everyone turned to watch with great reverence as Howard's Poetic Spirit came to life:

"My love is like a Swingline

steadfast and shining

able to penetrate upwards of

two-dozen sheets of standard

Xerox paper with a single -"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Vince, rolling his eyes. "He was nearly off to a good start there, really had me at 'penetrate,' but what the hell was that follow-through? I can't handle this."

Vince ran from the room, shaking off the cobwebs of spontaneous bop poetry as soon as they were out.

"Oh for fuck's sake, no."

Vince shook his head, arms crossed in defiance. "Does Howard really expect us to search his entire Library of Encyclopaedic Knowledge?" he asked.

"He could be anywhere, Vince," the Guide reminded him. "Even now, I can feel his consciousness slipping away."

"Well, why can't you feel where his consciousness bloody is, Sherlock?" demanded Vince. "This place is massive!"

"That's actually a good question," conceded the guide, brow furrowed in deep confusion. "I... don't... know."

"_Fine_. Let's get on with it," sighed Vince, slumping grumpily onward.

Howard's Library of Encyclopaedic Knowledge consisted of a labyrinthine system of shelves, crammed with dusty, leather-bound tomes on such fascinating topics as topographical cartography (oh look, a morraine!), avant-garde cinema (film two hours of footage with the lenscap on and the microphone switched off, call it _Lacuna_, and await the adulation of film studies professors who wear turtlenecks under blazers and hand-roll their cigarettes), and advanced Indo-European linguistics (sure, so Vince couldn't say as to which languages used the letter ð, but he could, with a few strategically-placed penstrokes, turn it into a stylized wasp).

Vince and the Guide sneezed their way through the boring old stacks, navigating through claustrophobic pathways of dust, up and down rickety wooden ladders and even more rickety iron staircases, until they reached a small island beneath a large sign on which the word INFORMATION was printed in helpful bright white letters.

"Genius," facepalmed Vince. "This is what we're after! Would it have killed you to put it by the front door, Howard?"

On the island stood a computer so pristine that it had likely never been used. Vince clicked a few links on the Library's web page (which, belonging an institution of learning and knowledge, was circuitously unnavigable) until he found the search engine. He typed the word "Howard" into the search field, and waited while the results loaded.

"We're sorry," said the computer screen, "no results meet your search criteria."

"That was easy," said Vince, with a shrug. "He must not be in here. Moving on?"

"Moving on," agreed the Guide.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: Need I say it? I may own a liquor cabinet filled with slightly dusty almost-finished bottles of kaluha, frangelico, and amaretto (and frequently replenished supply of baileys for my favourite drink, the Old Gregg) but I still don't own the Boosh.

**A/N**: Is it going to spoil things if I warn for implied sexy times? Well, there's implied sexy times ahead, so if that kind of thing bothers or you're like actually 12 years old, you might want to skip bits of this.

The sign on the next door was written in such tiny letters that Vince could barely read it.

"I'm guessing it says 'Howard's... something'?" he squinted.

The door swung open heavily, revealing a dark, empty movie theatre. A film was showing, to no one in particular. Vince quietly took a seat in one of the back rows, while the Guide lingered uncomfortably by the door.

It took Vince a few moments to realize just what sort of cinema he was in. The film being shown did not seem to follow any traditional narrative, but rather showed a sequence of seemingly unconnected scenes of things like extreme close-ups of hole-punches and staplers being used in soft-focus, pritt sticks gliding across sheets of paper, leaving a sticky trail, trumpets, and bookmarks. Vince squirmed in discomfort.

"This is well boring," he moaned.

But just then, the film's tone became somewhat more familiar. There he was on the flickering screen, reaching out to hold a blushing Howard's hand; there he was in his old Zooniverse sleeping bag, first thing in the morning; there he was pulling epic shapes in his spangly sailor getup; there was Penelope Keith circa 1977 in a beekeeper's uniform; there was James May driving a Volvo; there he was again, taking a shower, and then there was Howard behind him, touching his... oh. _Oh_. This was Howard's Mental Porno Theatre.

"Oh Howard, I don't know if I should be seeing this," grinned Vince, "but oh my sweet lord. And where on earth did you learn to do... _that_?"

Then a couple of other faces, mutual friends, popped in - apparently just to say hello. But then, but then, there was kissing and then, and then - Vince was horrified. On some very logical level, he knew this was totally normal, and hey, he'd passingly fancied other people before, and one sometimes had little control over who popped into one's theatre during the personal gentleman-by-himself times, but

"_Him_, Howard, really?" Vince shouted at the screen. "You bitch! That's the worst betrayal I've ever been forced to witness! When I get you out of here, I swear I'm never speaking to you ever again."

Even if, admittedly, that visual was kind of hot, and Vince might have just tucked it away in his personal mental wank bank for future recreational use. Or an engagement party orgy, if the others were keen? But no. But maybe.

Then suddenly, and without warning, the scene changed again: it was the night he and Howard made love for the very first time, though not quite how Vince remembered it. In this version, Howard was confident and coordinated, there was less nervous giggling and less need for whispered reassurances, and Vince apparently no longer had to show him exactly what to do with that lube. And then

"Is that really what my come-face looks like?" exclaimed Vince, blushing.

When the scene changed again, there were Vince and Howard, fumbling together in their old home in the Zooniverse. As porno Howard unzipped porno Vince's jacket, nipping at the pale flesh of his neck, lowering him onto his sleeping bag, the real Vince found his hand - apparently of its own volition, mind you - drifting toward his lap, pawing at the increasing bump inside his trousers. There was something strangely arousing about watching himself with Howard - Howard's attention to detail was admittedly flawless, and his pornographic self was having an extraordinarily good hair day. He slowly unzipped as he watched porno Howard stripping porno Vince's electric blue y-fronts with his teeth, gasping as he took hold of his cock, and -

"Uhh, Vince," interjected the Guide, "I, uhh, think we ought to keep searching, don't you?"

"Now?" pouted Vince. "But Howard's just about to give me a blowie in my old sleeping bag!"

"_Vince_," glared the Guide.

"Ugh, _fine_," he moaned, painfully tucking himself back in, wincing slightly as he stood. "But at least remind me to have a talk with Howard when this is all over, all right? If he's curious about trying rimming, or that outfit he had on in the kitchen scene, why doesn't he just say so? Some of that stuff was well kinky."

"I don't - moving on," facepalmed the Guide.

Meanwhile, Naboo and Bollo sat on the living room couch, watching repeats of _Come Dine With Me_. Bollo considered that it might have been prudent to mention that Howard's current state of jazz-induced vegetation coupled with Vince's current quest to rescue Howard from said state meant that no one was minding the Nabootique downstairs, but then it occurred to him that that would mean that Naboo would more than likely send him down to fill in, and he was quite keen on seeing that overbearing lady from Birmingham mutilate her _osso bucco_.

"Oi Bollo," said Naboo, muting the television as a giant puppy rampaged cutely through a teeny tiny house, "how do you think Vince is getting on by now?"

"Rescuing Harold? They probably both dead," concluded Bollo with a sage nod.

"Oh yeah," agreed Naboo, standing. "Fancy a thing of ice cream?"

"Go on, then," said Bollo, as Naboo peeked into the freezer on his tippy-toes. "But no raisins this time, Bollo no get why anyone ruin perfectly good ice cream with raisins."

"Oh good, Howard's mental inventory! Yeah, I think I'm going to be sick!" exclaimed Vince, upon entering the seemingly endless rows of bland office-khaki filing cabinets before them.

"Deep breaths, Vince, you have to keep going," sighed the Guide.

"Just don't tell me we have to search in _all_ these drawers," heaved Vince. "It smells like maths!"

"Don't be ridiculous," said the Guide. "He wouldn't fit in the cabinet drawers, would he?"

"Well, at least Howard's mind follows _some_ kind of logic, then," shrugged Vince, poking his way through the rows of dusty cabinets.

Each of the cabinets was carefully labelled with its contents: there were cabinets containing alphabetical lists of every song Howard had ever listened to, organized by genre (predictably, jazz had about three cabinets to itself); several for a list of every piece of stationery and stationery-related supply that had ever entered and exited Stationery Village; one for a list of every instance when Vince had told Howard he loved him; one for a list of every breakfast Howard had eaten, complete with detailed nutritional information tables; one for a list of every time he and Vince had made love; one - extra dusty - for his school transcripts.

Vince and the Guide searched between each of the cabinets, peeking round to see if someone could be hidden - or trapped - behind them. Their disturbance of the space had kicked up years' worth of dusty accumulations; Vince coughed and choked, trying to shield his face from the airborne grey menace. He could feel the dry, stale air wreaking utter havoc on his perfectly coiffured hair.

"This is useless," he proclaimed, throwing up his hands in defeat. "Besides, this place could be well cool with a bit of colour, maybe a new floor, couple of mirrorballs, that sort of thing. You know, Captain Cabinets, trapped in cabinets, can he get -"

but he stopped himself when he realized that the Guide was staring at him uncomprehendingly, instead of joining in.

"No offence, mate, but you're no fun," sighed Vince.

"None taken," said the Guide.

"I miss Howard like bloody fuck," said Vince, gazing sadly at the ugly old tile floor. "Do you ever think we'll find him in all... this?"

The Guide awkwardly placed a comforting hand on Vince's shoulder.

"We have to keep trying," he said.

"I know," said Vince, shaking the dust out of his hair with a frustrated tousle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I own this bowl of cornflakes what I'm eating at twenty past one in the morning, and I suppose I "own" this USB stick full of Top Gear I've been watching endlessly for the past week or two. I don't own the Boosh. They just whisper their secrets to me.

**A/N**: And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, the final chapter in this exciting saga! It sure is... something. Any questions, concerns, or complaints regarding this ending, can be forwarded to myself at this address: Sami Kelsh, camped in a sleeping bag outside the BBC until they agree to give me a six-episode series, London W1.

The next door was dark, and bore no sign to indicate its contents. Vince could vaguely hear what sounded like a few dozen musical instruments vomiting over one another filtering out through the door.

There he was, at long last: slumped forward on a rickety wooden chair, hands bound and headphones duct-taped to his ears, surrounded by a dark, menacing cloud of jazz.

"Howard, you fucking idiot!" shouted Vince. "I can barely breathe for jazz, it's horrid! How are we going to get him out?"

The Guide stared thoughtfully into the murk, raised his hands, and said

"Vince, what is the antithesis of jazz?"

Vince thought as hard as his little brain cell could think.

"It's… it's me, isn't it?" he said.

"Then the solution resides with you," nodded the Guide.

When Vince looked down again, he found that he held in his hand a glittering sword, made of New Wave Magic, tempered by the shimmering tones of Gary Numan himself.

"It's also a keytar," said the Guide.

"Genius," smiled Vince, with sudden understanding.

"Good luck to you, sir," said the Guide, bowing.

"Cheers mate," smiled Vince. Turning his attention toward the jazz, he struck a battle pose. "All right, you formless atonal menace, let's dance." 

Vince took a deep breath, held aloft his sword, and sang the first song he could think of.

"You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met you," he shouted with all his might.

(Perhaps an unfortunate choice of song, he thought in hindsight: the mental image of Howard dressed as a cocktail waitress, under any other circumstances, was something he no doubt would have left him greatly amused - and possibly slightly aroused.)

The hideous fog of jazz curled out in his direction in dense, dark tendrils, lashing out hard and sharp, but Vince continued undaunted. He could barely hear his own voice over the malevolent dark, which blasted fierce saxophone licks and horrible trumpet explosions all around him. He tried not to allow his heart to sink on him, not when he needed every ounce of his strength. The sword was a mighty weapon, to be sure, but how would he strike at an enemy with out solid form?

"Don't, don't you want me," he shouted as loud as he could, throwing shapes through the bebop fog. The shapes pierced the darkness like glittering fireworks, beautiful hexagons and diamonds and oblongs, and the jazz shrunk and recoiled in response.

"You'd better change it back or we will both be sorry!" shouted Vince, swinging his keytar sword, pumping his fist in the air, as the jazz dissolved in a final defiant blast of about a million instruments all playing improvised solos all at once, and then was gone.

"We've done it! Cheers, mate," he smiled triumphantly, and looked behind him for the Guide, but he was gone. "What, run off right after we've defeated the final boss? That's just rude."

It was then that Vince turned his attention once more to Howard, who remained tethered and incoherent. Vince carefully extricated Howard from his bindings, and Howard collapsed into him.

"Howard," said Vince. "Howard! Come on, you big weenie!"

"Vince?" mumbled Howard quietly.

"I'm right here," said Vince.

"You found me," whispered Howard, the faintest trace of a smile forming beneath his troubled moustache.

"Didn't half make it nearly impossible, your stupid brain," laughed Vince. "But we always find each other, don't we?"

"That's because we belong together, you and me," smiled Howard.

"Oh Howard," Vince said softly, and in spite of himself, he was pretty sure that his eyeliner had begun to run.

When Vince looked up again, he found that he and Howard were back on the living room couch. Perhaps they had never left the room at all.

Vince slapped him.

"That's for messing with danger jazz," he said. He slapped Howard again.

"And that's for making me and fake Bryan Ferry poke through the dusty recesses of your creepy brain."

He slapped Howard again.

"And that's for scaring the shit out of me," he said.

Howard may have blushed - it was hard to tell, mind you, as the repeated impact of Vince's palm coinciding with his face left him considerably pinker than usual.

"I'll have you know, sir," said Howard, rubbing his jaw, "that my mind is a majestic land of wonders, a repository of knowledge the depths of which you cannot begin to fathom."

"Yeah, fine, but would it kill you to hoover the place once in a while?" squinted Vince. "Especially when you've got company round! Even the dust bunnies had dust bunnies!"

"How dare you suggest that -"

Whatever it was that Howard was about to suggest that Vince was suggesting was muffled by Vince launching into Howard, clinging to him as tightly as his arms would allow, kissing him with desperate ferocity.

"You're damn lucky Bryan Ferry and I found you when we did, you know" scolded Vince.

"I know," said Howard quietly. "Thanks, Vince."

"What the hell were you thinking, putting that dangerous mind-altering crap on this morning, you haddock?" he demanded.

"I'll have you know that I'm an expert-level jazzmaster, sir," said Howard. "I can handle a spot of danger."

"Yeah, that sounds well accurate, Captain Slow," retorted Vince.

"That's - what did you say?" asked Howard, his tiny eyes darting about the room nervously.

"Never mind that, Howard, I just think, considering the smelly nightmare you've just put me through, it's only fair that I lay some ground rules about what kinds of music gets played round here, yeah?" said Vince.

"Uhh, what?" asked Howard.

"Right: Rock and roll, New Wave, punk, funk - but not jazz funk - trance, French house, glam rock, queercore, speedcore, folk - but not jazz folk - and just to be on the safe side, let's say no to bluegrass," concluded Vince. "And if I find you so much as nodding your head to some hip-hop acid jazz jam, I'll come at you like a bitchslap hurricane, got it?"

Howard was horribly offended at Vince's utter lack of confidence in his expert-level jazz skills. Admittedly, he may have bit off more than he could chew with that morning's selection, but the three first-place jazzercise tournament trophies gathering dust on his trophy shelf were a testament to his jazz prowess. He was, on the other hand, still too weak to protest fully.

"Just one other thing," said Vince, grinning mischievously, leading Howard by the elbow to their room.

"And what would that be?" asked Howard.

"Do you reckon my old sleeping bag from the Zooniverse is hanging about somewhere in storage?" asked Vince. "Only there was this strange film playing in one bit of your mind, and it reminded me how much I miss that old sleeping bag."

Howard blushed the precise shade of red that could only otherwise have been achieved had Vince slapped him with 5098346039863.9 hands simultaneously.

"Oh I _see_," said Howard, flustered. "Well, I don't think it should be too hard to track it down."


End file.
